We Might Be Okay
by mimithereader
Summary: "Lydia?" Stiles asks, concerned. "Are you okay?" Because he noticed her wet eyes – of course – just like he notices everything. But this isn't the time to break down. Not now, not twenty minutes before she is supposed to be at her best friend's funeral so Lydia shakes her head, blinks back her tears, and stands up a little straighter. (Prompt: Stiles comforts Lydia)


Hearing a soft, cautious knock on her open bedroom door, Lydia turns to see Stiles hovering awkwardly in her doorway. He's wearing a stiff looking suit and he looks uncomfortable in the tie around his neck. She offers him a small smile that he returns shakily before entering her room and taking a seat at the foot of her bed.

Allison's funeral is in forty minutes and Lydia's just finished applying a coat of mascara, still in her robe. She heads across the room to rifle through her closet as Stiles fidgets with his hands, eyes never leaving her.

Lydia goes through her dresses methodically: too frilly, too fancy, too short, too low-cut. It takes her fifteen minutes, but she finally settles on three dresses: two typical black dresses and a probably much too bright pink blue dress. It's not fit for a funeral, not really, but Lydia remembers Allison once telling her how much she liked it. At the time Lydia had promised to let her borrow it. That wouldn't happen now.

Shaking off the stabbing pang in her chest at the thought of Allison, Lydia turns to face Stiles, holding up the coral dress and one of the black dresses, silently asking for his opinion. He, unsurprisingly, gestures toward the black dress. It's the expected choice after all, the exact kind of thing one should wear to a wear funeral. The blue dress is cheerful, almost obnoxiously so, too unfitting for such a depressing event, but Stiles doesn't even give her a confused look.

Lydia walks towards her full length mirror, taking turns holding up each dress against her body as Stiles continues watching. Looking at the blue dress, Lydia can't help but think of all the things Allison could have done wearing the dress, all the things she would never get a chance to do, and Lydia can't stop the sudden wave of regret and sadness that has her eyes shining.

"Lydia?" Stiles asks, concerned. "Are you okay?"

Because he noticed her wet eyes – _of course _– just like he notices everything. But this isn't the time to break down. Not now, not twenty minutes before she is supposed to be at her best friend's funeral so Lydia shakes her head, blinks back her tears, and stands up a little straighter.

"I'm fine," she says in a rather harsh tone that would have most everyone backing off instantly.

But Stiles is so not most people.

He stands up and, rather than backing off, approaches her, stopping just close enough to touch her. He keeps his hands to himself though, not sure if his touch would be welcome after – well, after everything. They _are_ on their way to a funeral that wouldn't be taking place if anyone had done the smart thing and killed him before it reached that point.

So, yeah, he stands just far enough away to not touch her.

She sees him behind her in the mirror, but she doesn't turn. She meets his eyes in the reflection and repeats with conviction, "I'm fine, Stiles."

"No, you're not."

Biting her lip, she looks away and throws the blue dress to the ground with unnecessary force.

"It's okay, Lydia. It's okay."

And that's what breaks her.

Because it's _not_ okay, it's _so_ not okay and he _knows_ that. He knows it might not _ever_ be okay again. Allison is_ gone_. She's _gone_ and she _isn't coming back_.

Her face crumples and he reaches out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. She drops the black dress she had still been holding tightly, her fingers refusing to grip anything. She looks up at him in the mirror again. He meets her gaze, removing his hand and opening his arms in invitation. She doesn't hesitate, just turns and steps into his embrace, pressing her face to his chest. All the tears she's been holding at bay since that night at Eichen House rush forward and she's sobbing so hard she can hardly catch her breath. He holds her close, grip tightening almost painfully every time her breath hitches, and he repeatedly places kisses on the top of her head.

When she's too exhausted to shed even one more tear, when she feels like there is just no way she will be able to make it to the funeral, he pulls back enough to look at her. His hands come up to bracket her face and he places a tender kiss to her forehead before taking another step back, whispering, "you'll be okay."

He moves around her, ignoring the black dress completely and instead reaching for the blue dress she had thrown in anger. He hands it to her with a small, knowing smile and nudges her gently towards the bathroom.

She goes without argument, thankful not for the first time that she has him as a friend. He just knows things, knows _her_ in a way no one else does. No one else would have let her leave the house in that blue dress to attend her best friend's funeral, but he understands. He always understands.

She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, taking in the damage her crying caused. Ripping off a few squares of toilet paper, she wets it with water and soap and sets to taking off her makeup. It's a messy job, makeup remover would have been easier, but somehow the deterioration of the toilet paper and the sting of the soap seem more fitting.

When she's done wiping the mascara off her cheeks and has gotten dressed, she lifts her head high and stares at the dress. Lydia smiles at her reflection approvingly. The dress is beautiful, Allison was right. Lydia's glad she is wearing it. Knowing she will never wear it again, she exits the bathroom. Stiles is standing right outside the door. He smiles softly and tucks a curl behind her ear.

She is not sure she will make it through the funeral, but when Stiles reaches down and takes her hand, she thinks she might be okay.


End file.
